


All in a night's work

by Dea (dea_liberty)



Category: Lucifer Box - Mark Gatiss
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-12-20
Updated: 2010-12-20
Packaged: 2017-10-13 20:39:42
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,453
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/141517
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dea_liberty/pseuds/Dea
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's a pretty typical night for Lucifer Box. There's a girl, Charlie Jackpot (who needs saving once again), and finally - and rightfully - the hero gets his due in the end. The hero being Lucifer, of course.</p>
            </blockquote>





	All in a night's work

**Author's Note:**

  * For [boingboing](https://archiveofourown.org/users/boingboing/gifts).



I have often found myself in strange situations. That was one of the most alluring - in my most humble opinion, of course - things about being a spy for the secret service. What would be the point, after all, in having such a dramatic title only to be stuck doing the dreariest sort of work for the police department as though one were any common policeman on the streets. No, I preferred the thrills that came with the title - preferred it, reveled in it, cherished each and every moment I was alive! That was what I told myself every other day of the week.

(The other most wonderful part about being a spy was the fact that it was quite the conversation starter; woman love spies, you know, and you would not believe how they fall all over themselves for one more story. And yes, yes, I know, this really is quite indiscreet of me.)

Coming back to the point at hand; I often find myself in odd and sometimes precarious positions though even I had to admit, this one was quite the little predicament. There is something so very cliche about bad guys standing in front of you with two options, don't you think? One has to hope that things change from time to time, but some villains never seemed to learn. Do you pick A and save Betsy, or B and save Francis?

Or, in my case, did I save the _amore_ of the night - Christine - or did I save my trusty manservant. Yes, that same manservant - who still needed saving eleven times before breakfast. Tonight, we were only on number four and there were still around five hours until dawn broke. It was good to know some things never changed, I suppose, but really, if that pout was a little less appealing (amongst other reasons, of course; I am not often swayed by a gorgeous pout alone), I would be quite ready to give up.

It is always a terrible situation to be put in but, ultimately, beautiful girls were easier to find than good service - terribly difficult to get good help these days. The last time I lost a butler, the secret service took so long to find a new one that I it wasn't until I'd found Charlie Jackpot here that he was replaced. So, alas, it was an unfortunate night for both the villain and the girl as I whisked Charlie off into the darkness.

Ah, I've shocked you. I know, I know, as the ever graceful hero, I should always save the damsel in distress but my reasoning is really rather simple. Charlie is both my servant _and_ a damsel in distress, and I was quite sure, today's villain wouldn't harm the young lady now that I have shown how little I care about her well-being. Here was to hoping at any rate.

So, it was with a wave of my long, elegant fingers that I picked up Charlie and disappeared into the night. Going home was, of course, out of the question; if today's bad guy knew about Charlie, he was bound to know my address; it isn't exactly in the most subtle part of London after all. Wonderfully ostentatious in the daylight disguise of Lucifer Box, painter extraordinaire, but woefully terrible when someone knew of my other occupation. It was something that would inevitably have to be dealt with - but not without the help of the Domestics. If there is anything I hate more than ugly people, it's having to clean up after an assassination.

That was what Domestics were for. And Delilah was incredibly talented at what she did.

"Remind me to give Delilah a call in the morning, Charlie," I told my manservant as he glared at me from his position in my arms. What can I say? I do like to be old-fashioned from time to time. It lends a certain air of a heroic deed completed, if you know what I mean. If word gets out that the great Lucifer Box is also a member of the Secret Service…well, then it wouldn't be so secret now would it? "This is most inconvenient. If Joshua Reynolds hears about this, then I'm most certain our wages will be docked." I often believe the Secret Service pays by how much of a secret you are; the less people know about you, the more they pay you - but that's a theory for another day.

Right now, I had a mostly naked manservant in my arms. Oh? Did I forget to mention that part? How very careless of me, though I suppose the omission could be blamed on several reasons such as the fact that Charlie is often mostly naked. So often that it occasionally doesn't occur to me to point this out to my readers. It is difficult to find someone less discreet than I - something that I am incredibly proud of, as a matter of fact - but there are times when I think my manservant comes somewhat close.

"Call Delilah in the morning, sir," Charlie replied in his most sullen tone. Really, if he got any more sullen, we would begin sinking. The months in my service had not, I'm afraid to admit, done much for the boy's disposition. And it was not, I hurry to add, from lack of trying.

A particularly appealing image of Charlie laid out across my knees, still half-clothed, shivering and _still sulking_ flashed before my eyes, and I paused in my particularly courageous retreat to consider that a little more carefully. When inspiration strikes, I would be betraying my artistic spirit if I didn't stop to consider it in detail. It was then that I finally decided upon a safe spot to call Delilah and hatch up another plan from. It was a place I favoured once in a while - when I needed to be a little incognito, you see. It is most terribly difficult to find a quiet spot sometimes when one is both so well known and as beautiful and memorable as I am.

There was no call for our pursuers to duck into this particularly seedy looking place, after all; it was the perfect hiding place. And the perfect place to contemplate Charlie's backside, imagining it beginning to redden as my hand - or alternately, a cane - landed marks in a precise pattern over the skin. Ah, it was really quite an impressive image - and when I say that, you have to understand that I really _have_ to be impressed; an artist's eye, exceptionally sophisticated tastes etc. etc.

And there was a quickly rising artistic need to make this image into a reality. I was, after all, a man of action rather than a man of (too many) words. Or, if I'm going to be using words or thinking up images, it is often only the first step to my many _masterpieces._ Even if they are ones only I will ever see. That is, alas, the fate of most of my best work.

I wasted no more time in depositing Charlie onto the floor beside the slightly questionable couch inside the room I booked us into. (To say something for the establishment, the lady of the house barely blinked as I came through the door still carrying my half-clothed servant, and simply handed us a key for the room.) These were both better choices, in my most humble opinion, than the bed, which was rather too seedy - literally, if you follow - to be of much appeal to me.

Predictably, Charlie only stared up at me from where he was with those very, very blue eyes. And yes, before you ask, he was still pouting at me. "This isn't calling Delilah, Mister Box," he felt it pertinent to point out, but I could see realisation beginning to slowly seep into those eyes - and I could see the pupils beginning to expand simply from anticipation. Rough around the edges (and perhaps, if I was really to admit it, that was part of the appeal) or and occasionally uncouth, Charlie had always been a clever boy when he wasn't getting kidnapped. And, as I said before, this wasn't the first time I'd tried to instill some discipline into him.

I started to take off my gloves as I raised one elegant eyebrow. "No," I answered him, being sure to enunciate each word very, very carefully. "This isn't."

When Charlie shivers - just as I'd pictured, just as I'd imagined he would - I knew there was really only one thing any decent gentleman in my position would do; I drew him into my lap, stroked a slow hand down his back and got to work making my vision a reality.


End file.
